


Something Better

by LovelyPoet



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nanny, Kid Fic, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-07
Updated: 2007-11-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyPoet/pseuds/LovelyPoet
Summary: "We all have to take jobs we don't like sometimes, you know?"AKA - The Nanny Frank fic.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 13
Kudos: 132





	Something Better

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing new, just finally moving this over to AO3 from LiveJournal.

**I.**

The nameplate on the edge of the desk is black plastic with cheap gold paint lettering, and it's all Frank can do not to pick at the chipped, flaking arch in the lower case "m" of "Mr. Comerford." He's in a suit and tie and if he puts his hands in his jacket pocket, he'll be able to feel the smooth metal of his lip, nose and ear rings, waiting to be put back in. Three thirty on a Wednesday afternoon and it's his fourth interview in one day. Just like the other three, promising as the job had seemed in initial phone screenings, this one has gone to shit. Frank's pretty sure it was mostly over approximately five seconds after he walked in the door.

"I have to say, Mr. Iero, can I call you Frank?"

"Sure, yeah. Yes, that's fine." Frank doesn't care. The guy could call him Zippy the Pinhead and Frank would take it if it meant he was getting the job.

"Frank, your application is very impressive, and you come very highly recommended from your professors." Mr. Comerford leans back in his chair and Frank knows that posture and facial expression. He's already seen it multiple times today.

"But?" Frank asks.

"As I'm sure you know, we pride ourselves on making our school a progressive, diverse environment. It's important to us to develop acceptance for a great range of lifestyles, as our community of families and faculty is… uh, diverse…" Frank watches him slide the application packet back across the top of the desk.

"But?" He doesn't need the prettied-up bullshit talking points. He's read the website.

"We do have to maintain a certain level of professionalism. I just don't think our kindergarten parents would be comfortable with a teacher with such an appearance," he waves vaguely at Frank, a gesture that Frank's sure is supposed summarize every problem with him in the single flick of a wrist. "You understand the dilemma."

Frank scrubs his hand through the short bleached hair at the back of his neck, flips away the longer dark strands threatening to fall over his eye. Mr. Comerford coughs and Frank almost feels sorry for the guy's obvious discomfort at the way Frank's nervous ticks just draw more attention to the 'dilemma.' Almost, but seriously, it's the twelfth time he's heard some variant of the line in the month since his teaching certification came through. It's getting a little tiresome.

"I understand that I'm probably not what most parents have in mind," Frank says. "But I'm qualified for the job. Like you said, I've got strong recommendations. I can promise you monochromatic hair by the first day of school. It was a bad styling choice so close to graduating, I can admit that mistake. I'm a teacher, Mr. Comerford, and I'd really like the opportunity to prove that."

The shake of the head doesn't really come as a surprise, nor does the way the guy's eyes flick back to Frank's knuckles. It's enough to make Frank slide his hands off the edge of the desk and hide them in his lap.

"So, it's gonna be don't call us, we'll call you?" Frank says, trying hard not to sound bitter.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Iero. I'm sure there's a position out there somewhere for you. Perhaps at a public school." It almost sounds like it hurts the guy to say the last two words. Like just saying 'public school' is going to put him at risk of working in one. Frank doesn't bother to tell him that apparently knuckle tattoos are just as frowned on in public schools (God forsaken pits of hell that Mr. James Comerford may have decided them to be, notwithstanding) as they are in the hallowed halls of private education. That it was public schools that told him to try some of the more progressive private places to begin with.

"Yeah, sure," Frank nods and pushes his chair back. He doesn't make a move for hand shake, just nods and head for the door. "Anyway, great meeting you."

"Best of luck with your job search, Mr. Iero," Mr. Comerford says. Frank resists the urge to tell him to take his luck and shove it up his prodigious ass. .

"So long, Jimmy," Frank waves. At least this time, there's no rent-a-cop security guard waiting to escort him from the principal's office back off school grounds like he's a common thief rather than a summa cum laude graduate with a BA in elementary education.

Frank makes it three steps outside the door to the school before he's swearing and digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. He manages to get the cigarette lit and tug the tie around his neck loose at the same time.

By the time he gets home, he's moved past pissed and settled on something between resigned and just plain exhausted, not sure where the physical part of it ends and the mental begins. He drops his bag by the door and drops himself onto his back on the couch. He knows there are things he should be doing. Applying for more jobs is right at the top of the list, but it's also right at the top of the list of things he doesn't want to deal with. So he goes with something a little further down the list.

* * *

His nap is called to a screeching halt a couple hours later when the bag he left by the door hits him in the stomach with impressive force.

"Fuck off, Toro. I've had a shitty day," Frank flips his middle finger in the general direction of the apartment door without opening his eyes and hopes for the best.

"Frank, we gotta talk," Ray says, kicking at Frank's feet until he pulls them up so Ray can sit on the end of the couch.

"What part of 'I've had a shitty day' makes you think this is a good time to talk?" Frank mutters, shoving his bag back down on to the floor.

"It's June twentieth," Ray says.

"Yes, yes it is. Am I still speaking English?" Frank asks, and Ray nods. "Okay, just checking. Since, ya know, not in the mood to talk. Should I try it in another language and maybe see if it'll work better?"

"Frank. June twentieth. Wedding's in two weeks." Ray looks at Frank and waits, Frank hates that look, the one that means he's supposed to be aware of something that he's clearly missing.

"Oh, fuck you, you can't be serious!" Frank says the second he realizes what it is.

"You agreed. You volunteered!" Ray says.

"That was last year!" Frank says, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face. "Seriously, you're seriously, seriously holding me to that? I don't have a job. How the fuck am I supposed to move out?"

"Frank, she's moving in. I mean, it can maybe wait until we get back from the honeymoon, but Krista's going to be moving in. You promised, man. I cannot start my marriage with her pissed at me because you left your dirty boxers in the bathroom again. I'm sorry."

"Okay, first," Frank says, "I never leave my boxers in the bathroom. That's your disgusting, slovenly behavior that I'm always cleaning up after. Oh my god, is that what you've told her? Is that why she hates me?"

"No," Ray says weakly, clearly meaning 'why yes, Frank, I blame all my bad behavior on you to avoid getting yelled at by my fiancée.' The lies don't stop there. "And she doesn't hate you.

"Whatever. Second, and I repeat, how the hell am I supposed to find a place to live when I can't find a job?" Frank glares at Ray.

"That bad?" Ray asks.

"Yeah, apparently this look doesn't really go over so well with the elementary school hiring administration."

"I don't know what to tell you, man." Ray says with a shrug "I mean, I'll talk to Krista. Maybe see if you can stay until you find a job. But you're going to have to buy us like… a blender or something to make up for it."

"Sure, yeah," Frank nods. "I'll get you a Foreman grill. Figure out how I can get a job and I'll even spring for a juicer."

"You could go into private child care," Ray says.

"Private child care?" Frank makes a face. "Oh, man."

"I think you mean 'Oh, manny,'" Ray smirks. Frank groans and shakes his head.

"No. No. Just, no. A nanny?" Frank shudders. "Do I look like Julie Andrews?"

Ray hums and Frank can already tell he doesn't want to hear what comes next.

"No, I think with a nice tight skirt and some heels you could pull off a passable Fran Drescher. But you're probably safer going for Scott Baio."

"Fuck off, Toro," Frank says, but he can't help that the idea might have merit. "But, shit, I mean, maybe you're right. There's gotta be at least one family in this city that doesn't care if their kid's being fed and carted around by a guy with tattoos. Right?"

Ray hums something that sounds like agreement and pats Frank on the shoulder. "Two weeks man, I'm sure something will turn up."

* * *

Two weeks, five childcare agency interviews and one wild party later, Frank finds himself sitting in the living room on a Saturday morning. Ray and Krista are off frolicking somewhere on a white sand beach and Frank hates them more than a little.

He's spent way too many hours since they left watching cartoons, eating dry cereal straight from the box. He's been thinking about clerical temp work, or possibly retail, maybe selling his organs. He has no idea how this happened to his life.

All he knows for sure is that the nanny agencies have displayed about the same complete lack of interest as schools in hiring a dude with visible tattoos, piercings and fucked up hair. And Christ, if it weren't for the fact that it makes him look like a cross between a terminal patient and an escaped convict, he'd just shave his head and be done with that particular hurdle.

He's dumbed down his resume for entry level temp work, deleted his GPA and half his honors and awards. He's just about to resort to the "et cetera" category on craigslist when the ad catches his eye.

> "Help me Obi Wan" - Fed Up With "Traditional" Nanny Care and domestic help (LIVE-IN!)
> 
> Drill sergeants, nuns and republicans need not apply.
> 
> Busy, disorganized but well intentioned divorced, single father with full custody of 5 yr old daughter in desperate need of help keeping our lives on track.
> 
> Successful artist with one foot in the corporate world. Can't do both with a five year old tucked under my arm. I'm looking for a live-in assistant to help me reorganize my life and keep my child (and me) from subsisting entirely on cheerios, pop tarts, dino shaped chicken nuggets and kraft easy mac.
> 
> Traditional agencies have been a disaster of epic proportions. Looking for someone to foster my kid's creative spirit (she's got lots of that… as well as independence, curiosity, determination, and energy… really, a lot of that), manage our daily routines, meal prep, housekeeping, laundry, organizing special outings, errands, reminding me what day it is, communicating with my business manager about my schedule, chaperoning school trips, whatever needs to be done…
> 
> I know. I'd be better looking for a housewife, but I tried marriage once and look where I am now.
> 
> Exorbitant salary and additional living expenses covered for the right candidate (yes, you'll have to pass a full background check. I'm disorganized, not an idiot).
> 
> Private room, shared bath, full run of the kitchen, internet access and every cable station known to man on obscenely large television. Work hours vary (see "horribly irregular schedule") but Sundays, every other Saturday and nights after 7:30 are yours to do as you please… most of the time. Compensation will reflect any time that's not true.

"Huh," Frank says to himself and rereads the ad. It takes him fifteen minutes to undumb his resume and whip off a letter of interest, leaving out the part where he's desperate for income and a roof over his head. He titles the email "Look no further, young Skywalker" and hits send.

* * *

Another day, another box of chocolaty cereal and daytime TV marathon. This time, he's settled on Count Chocula and Law & Order. When his phone rings in the middle of an episode he's seen at least a dozen times, he doesn't bother checking the number before answering.

"Frank Iero's phone, Frank speaking," Frank mumbles around a mouthful of cereal.

"Frank, hi." The voice says from the other end and it's not one that Frank recognizes at all. "I'm calling regarding the resume you sent in for the live-in nanny position. Uh, this is 'luke skywalker.' I guess, though, I know your name now."

"Oh!" Frank sits up straighter and swallows. "Oh, hi. Huh, I wasn't expecting to hear from you. So soon, I mean, uh, Luke?"

"Gerard," the guy says, "Gerard Way. Hi. Again. Okay, I know it's Sunday and this is strange and possibly out of line, but could you maybe stop by this afternoon for an informal interview?"

"Today?" Frank repeats dumbly, running a hand through his unwashed hair and cringing when he realizes that he's just added cereal dust to the mix. "Um, yeah. Sure, I can do that. I guess."

"Great!" Gerard says and rattles off an address, "Say, three o'clock? My daughter should be back from my mother's by then, and I've got two hours after that before I have a conference call with my manager and accountant, so…"

"Wait!" Frank digs through a stack of papers on the coffee table and reaches for a pen, "What was the address again, sorry, you went kind of fast."

Gerard repeats himself and Frank double checks. "So, three?"

"Right, three, see you then," Frank says, a little stunned.

* * *

The building is a giant former warehouse in a neighborhood that Frank doesn't tend to think of as going along with "exorbitant" salaries and he suddenly thinks that maybe he should have done a little background checking of his own before showing up. There's a call box by the door and he finds the button marked "Way, G & C" and presses.

"Frank? Is that you?" The voice from his phone earlier comes through staticky.

"Yeah, it's me. You're not, like, up there with a hatchet and jigsaw waiting to dismember me, right?"

There's a long silence and Frank figures he's just ruined yet another job opportunity, this time without even making it through the door.

"Drat," Gerard says blandly. "You've discovered my dastardly plan. I am thwarted."

"No," Frank grins, "that's cool. I just wanted to know what I was getting into. Buzz me up?"

"Top floor," Gerard says and the electronic release on the door sounds.

Getting to the top floor requires a shaky ride in a freight elevator that doesn't leave Frank feeling terribly confident that he's not actually riding to his doom. When the elevator door opens, though, the hallway is bright and clean, freshly painted and shows no signs of recent crime scenes. The mat in front of the apartment door is so intricately decorated that he's afraid to step on it.

He knocks and doesn't have to wait long for an answer.

"Hi," Gerard says pulling the door open and waving Frank in, fingers coated with drying clay. "Come on in."

Frank steps into the apartment and has to physically bite his tongue to keep from swearing in amazement at the giant open plan living room and kitchen. The light is almost blinding from skylights and a wall of windows. It's amazing. It's also a mess. There are takeout containers and pizza boxes, stacks of magazines, dirty clothes, paint splattered tarps, toys, not a clear surface to be found. Frank's not entirely sure, and he doesn't want to look too closely, but he thinks there might be a feather boa in one of the wall sconces.

"Wow," Frank says. He's not sure whether it about the amazing space or the terrifying condition it's in.

"Yeah, I know," Gerard says, wrinkling his nose, apparently assuming the latter. "It's not usually this bad, but I've been working on a few corporate account deadlines, something about a car commercial. Everybody wants cartoon characters now, ya know? Wow, you probably don't care. Anyway, the last housekeeper quit three weeks ago. So… this. And you haven't run screaming yet, so…"

"Well, you haven't shoved me out the door So, I guess we're even." Frank shrugs and Gerard looks at him. Frank waves at his hair, waggles his fingers. "This look doesn't always go over so well with parents, ya know?"

“Oh, huh.” Gerard tilts his head and peers at Frank. “It's a good look for you, actually. Didn't even really notice.”

“Thanks,” Frank grins. “So, uh, not an issue?”

“Does it keep you from doing dishes or getting places on time?”

“Nope,” Frank shakes his head, letting a few strands of hair fall across his face.

“Then no,” Gerard says. Gerard moves toward the kitchen area and Frank follows. He's just settling at one of the tall stools at the bar when there's a rhythmic smacking sound from behind .

He turns to look and is left honest to god speechless. There is a child walking through the middle of Gerard's apartment, a little girl with a mass of curly hair. Considering what he's there for, Frank can't be surprised by her presence, but her sartorial choices are something else entirely.

She's wearing giant blue swim flippers on her feet, a lime green bathing suit, pink rain slicker snorkel and mask. Frank doesn't much care about the color clash… but really. Flippers. Flippers she has clearly become accustomed to walking in. Her steps are high and slow, careful but practiced, none of the awkwardness Frank would expect. He's not even thinking about the fact that she's clenching a butterfly net in one hand and a spatula in the other.

"Whatcha doing, Chloe?" Gerard asks without turning to look. She says nothing, and Gerard asks again, "Chloe?"

The girl - Chloe, Frank figures - spits the snorkel from her mouth and pauses in her walk. "I'm hunting mermaids!" She says grinning and starting again in the same direction.

"Okay, kiddo," Gerard says. "Just remember, mermaids are catch and release in New York. You gotta throw back any you catch."

"I know!" Chloe says, pushing through a door that Frank assumes is a bathroom when the sound of running water starts up a few seconds later.

"Hunting mermaids?" Frank says, turning back to Gerard. Creative spirit, the ad had said.

"My brother took her to the mythical creatures exhibit a few months ago trying to get her interested in unicorns. That was a no-go, but this has been a thing ever since. It keeps her busy for a while and usually I can convince her to wash her hair while she's doing it." Gerard steps over a stack of DVD cases in the middle of the kitchen floor and opens the refrigerator.

"Right," Frank says, thinking back on his own days of begging his mother to drive him to the end of every rainbow. "I guess the flippers and all that's understandable. And the net makes perfect sense. But. Was that a spatula?"

"Yeah, apparently it's a required aspect of mermaid hunting. I think it's for scraping barnacles." Gerard shrugs. "Something to drink? I've got bottled water, and other bottled water, some slightly past expiration OJ if you want to risk it. Oh, and some milk that might be well on its way to being perfectly aged cheddar at this point. I'd recommend the water."

"Water sounds fine." Frank watches Gerard move around the kitchen, poking at the stack of dishes piled in the sink and opening cabinets. He keeps making surprised and dissatisfied noises, taking things that Frank doesn't recognize as kitchenware out of cabinets and setting them on the counter. "Or nothing is okay too."

"God, I'm sorry," Gerard sighs, "We should probably get started. We can talk about what I'm looking for."

"You mean other than a miracle?" Frank says. He wants to take it back the second it's out, he needs a job and this one… well, it would be a place to live while he looks for something better. He doesn't want the fact that he can't quite manage to turn off his big mouth to be what ruins the first interview that's showing any potential.

“Do you have a miracle?” Gerard asks with a slight smile. Frank exhales in relief.

"Well, my mother always said I was her little miracle, does that count?"

"It's a start."

* * *

Gerard's style of interviewing is like nothing Frank's ever experienced. He's more interested in rattling off his entire life history to Frank than he is in asking about Frank's qualifications. Fifteen minutes in, Frank knows that Gerard stopped drinking after he almost bombed out of his sophomore year of art school. He's picked up that Gerard's ex-wife is living in a flat in Paris with a woman named Genevieve.

"Don't get the wrong idea," Gerard tells him, explaining that they were married right out of school on a romantic whim, not "necessity" of any kind and that Chloe wasn't born until two and a half years later.

"Things didn't work out?" Frank doesn't know whether it's an inappropriate question or not, but Gerard doesn't to have much in the way of normal interview boundaries.

“We lasted about a year after that,” Gerard says. There's no bitterness in his voice. “Lisette tried, but I'm not sure she ever really thought about marriage and parenting beyond some theoretical ideal of what she thought it was supposed to be. I don't know that I did either until well, Chloe.”

Frank nods. Cliches of white picket happily ever after aren't anything he's been interested in since he picked up a guitar for the first time, but he's seen enough of his cousins and friends dive into the possibilities of wedded bliss that he understands the impulse and all the realities that get missed on the way to the party.

“She's a good woman, a great artist. She does these incredible mosaics,” Gerard continues. “She's just…”

“Not a hands-on mom?” Frank says carefully, without judgment. Considering the woman's in France rather than New York, Frank thinks it's probably a safe assumption.

"She calls Chloe every Tuesday,” Gerard says with a smile, “And she visits. She loves Chloe, but this way is better for all of us this way. I think. Anyway. Tell me about yourself.”

That's all the direction Gerard gives, so Frank does. For half an hour he talks almost aimlessly, things that weren't on his resume, things he probably shouldn't mention to potential employers. The band that fell apart during his third year as a junior and how it made him realize he was going to have to get a real job someday. How he settled on elementary education because it seemed like it would be easy but stuck with it out of stubborn pride when it turned out to be anything but.

At some point, he relaxes enough to start bitching about the slime of an ex-boyfriend who took off with a literature professor last year while Frank was visiting friends for spring break. "…and he expected me to let him keep the Playstation. Uh. I'm bisexual, I guess I should mention. I mean, not that I'd bring dates back here, but, I'll be going out probably and yeah. So I know the tats and the hair and stuff isn't an issue, but if that is-"

"Me too. Come on, let me show you around.” Gerard says, smile quirking at the corner of his lips. Frank guesses that translates to 'not a problem.'

The apartment is even bigger than it seems. Doors that Frank had assumed were for closets opening up into two separate studio spaces and he does his best to pay attention while Gerard explains his work.

“Is that a kiln?” Frank asks, eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline. Gerard nods distractedly and leads Frank back through the living area, tossing a door open onto a large empty room.

“And uh, this would be your room. Obviously, I'll buy furniture, not going to make you sleep on the floor or anything.”

Frank nods and thinks about his mattress on the floor of his room at Ray's and the cheap fiberboard dresser that threatens to disintegrate every time he opens his underwear drawer.

“I'm pretty low maintenance,” he says.

“Oh, well. Good,” Gerard nods. “I mean, bed, obviously. And when I say ‘you' it's hypothetical, of course. I've only just started interviewing. If I offer you the job-”

“Right,” Frank nods. "If that.”

Gerard knocks on the door that Chloe disappeared through earlier and calls out, “how goes the hunt?”

“Rotten.” The answer comes accompanied with a splash of water.

“Want some help?” Gerard twists the doorknob and waits.

"Please, yes,” Chloe says after a few second and Gerard pushes the door open.

Chloe is perched straddling the edge of a tub that's easily big enough for three people. One of her flippered feet dangles in the air, dripping water onto the bathmat. She's set the butterfly net down, but still clutches the spatula, and waves it at Frank like a sword.

“Halt!” She says, and Frank does. “Who goes there”

“Frank Iero, Cap'n,” Frank says, jolting into ramrod posture and saluting without hesitation, “Mermaid and leprechaun hunter extraordinaire. Permission to join the expedition?”

Gerard looks at Frank in surprise and Frank grins and winks.

“Leprachauns?” Chloe asks, eyes narrow, still holding Frank at bay with the spatula.

“Aye, Cap'n." Frank kneels down on the bathmat, heedless of the soaked patches. His pants will dry. "Wily creatures, but I've caught ‘em before an' will again.”

“Okay,” Chloe nods and sets the spatula down. “You can stay.”

Frank figures that's a good sign.

The mermaid hunt is a wash, but Chloe doesn't seem to mind the lack of a good day's catch. She's much more interested in interrogating Frank on where he developed his hunting skills… and what his favorite kind of jelly is. He's strangely, more nervous about impressing her than Gerard.

Gerard leans against the edge of the sink and seems to be taking notes in his head as they talk about the virtues and shortcomings of strawberry jam and Blackberry preserves (Chloe is not a fan of seeds). Frank wonders just how much of this was the interview proper.

When Gerard walks Frank back out to the door with promises to contact him as soon as he's checked references, Frank actually feels hopeful.

* * *

The bar is loud and the band is bad, but when Bob called him, he promised to pay for drinks, so Frank had said yes.

"Dude, they suck," Frank yells over the clashing chords.

"Yeah, well," Bob shrugs and raises his hand to flag the bartender. "Could be worse."

Frank can't argue with that, it could always be worse. At least it's recognizable as music, that gives it bonus points over last time.

"So, Toro's really kicking you out." Bob takes the drinks the bartender hands him and passes one to Frank.

"Looks that way," Frank takes a swallow and then another. He loves drinks someone else paid for. "He said he'd try to talk to Krista about it, but…"

"Yeah." Bob smirks and sets his drink down. "That's gonna happen."

"So… your couch," Frank says, rocking back on his heels trying not to look too desperate.

"Man, you know if it was up to me." Bob says.

"The little woman got you on your best behavior?" Frank rolls his eyes and slumps back against the bar.

"See, if you didn't always say shit like that, maybe Patrick would be more willing to let you stay with us." Bob shakes his head, and Frank can tell he's trying not to laugh. "No prospects?"

"Eh," Frank shrugs. "There's this one thing out there… but I don't know, man."

* * *

The second call comes exactly a week after the first and, except for his night out with Bob, every day has been an endless loop of cereal and small claims court and soap operas. . Gerard sounds tired and he's barely said hello before Frank hears a crash in the background followed by every parent's most dreaded word.

“Chloe Jolie Way, what do you mean ‘oops'?” Gerard says, voice muffled by what Frank assumes is his hand over the receiver, and then back into the phone, “So, my business manager got your background checks done. Turns out you're not on the run from the IRS, FBI or Homeland Security. When can you start?”

“Got someplace for me to sleep tonight?” Frank asks and Gerard grunts something that Frank assumes is a yes. “Give me a couple hours to pack and I'll be over tonight.”

He packs his entire life into two duffle bags and a guitar case and leaves a note for Ray and Krista.

> Found a job and a place. I'm out of your hair. Enjoy each other. The handcuffs are under the bathroom sink. The key is… somewhere. I don't want details. I do expect to be godfather to the first spawn.
> 
> -F

**II.**

He shows up with his stuff on Sunday night, helps Gerard clean up the entire box of Cheerios spilled out and crushed into dust on the kitchen floor and plays a round of Candyland with the kid. It's a nice night, and clearly meant to lull him. As far as he can figure, the job official officially starts when he gets smacked across the face with a teddy bear on Monday morning

He is still in his new bed, in his new room, the most comfortable place he's slept since leaving the womb… and a lot roomier. Chloe, who had apparently thrown the teddy bear up first to test the waters, quickly climbs up and sits down on his stomach.

“Hi,” she says, poking a finger at his cheek. “You're my new nanny, right? Daddy said so last night. I'm hungry. You need to wake up and make me oatmeal.”

“Bleurgh,” says Frank. Gerard hasn't gotten curtains yet for the giant easterly facing window in Frank's room, and there is only the slightest graying of the night sky to indicate that morning is anywhere nearby. “Mulmph.”

“You're silly,” Chloe says, poking him again and reclaiming her bear. “Oatmeal. With apples.”

Then she is gone and Frank manages to turn his head and force his eyes to focus on the glowing numbers on his alarm clock. Five in the morning. Fuck.

The first week doesn't exactly get better from there.

By Thursday, Frank's knees are bruised from hours crawling around to pick up detritus that the vacuum cleaning doesn't want to bother with. His back aches and his hands are threatening to go permanently pruney from exposure to dishwater. Twelve sneezing fits, make him consider asking Gerard about health benefits, even if it is just allergies. And he knows he's burned some brain cells he's going to need at some point from too many hours breathing in cleaner fumes.

He's cut the crusts off seven peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, burned five pancakes, and watched twelve hours of Sesame Street. Chloe has demanded three mermaid hunts, but only one has ended with the successful application of shampoo.

It's all strange. He's used to sharing space. The small house with his mother, dorm rooms, apartments with friends, and he's always carried more than was strictly his own weight, but never because he was contractually obligated to. He tries not to be bothered by the fact that he's said about ten words per day to Gerard, just variations on "I made dinner for Chloe, want some" and "okay, suit yourself," when the answer is a distracted shake of the head and wave.

"Come on, Chloe, story time" Gerard says when he finally wanders out of his studio each night, and that's Frank's cue that his day is over. He swings her up into his arms and disappears into her bedroom. Frank sits on the couch and flips stations idly, listening to the familiar cadence of Dr. Seuss.

It's not a bad job so far. But it's only been four days and already, he can't wait for it to be Saturday.

* * *

> From: fai1031@yahoo.com  
To: jamian@gmail.com  
Date: July 18, 2007  
Subject: New Gig and Digs
> 
> Hey darlin,
> 
> Ray finally kicked me out so he could engage in indiscriminant sexing with his newly legally recognized girlthing. Seems he wasn't interested in dealing with my shameful voyeuristic tendencies and horribly bad timing anymore. And OMG, why weren't you at the wedding? I know you were invited. Ray's cousin's are relentless, and I could have used your protection from their wandering hands.
> 
> Nevermind that now.
> 
> The point is, I've been kicked out. Don't worry your pretty head, though. I'm not living on the street or back with the mother. I managed to find a job, and it comes with a place to live. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. That means exactly what you think. I'm gonna be spending the next couple months following a kid around and keeping her from sticking her fingers into outlets, I guess. Good enough until something better comes along, right?
> 
> She's a sweet kid, at least. A little weird though. Thinks there are mermaids living in her bathtub and wants to be a dinosaur when she grows up. Her dad's kind of a piece of work, what little I've seen of him.
> 
> Drop me a line. I miss you.
> 
> Love always,  
Your former fiancé.

> From: jamian@gmail.com  
To: fai1031@yahoo.com  
Date: July 18, 2007  
Subject: AHAHAHAHAHAHAH
> 
> You're a NANNY?????? This I've got to see. When can I come over?
> 
> <3 J

> From: fai1031@yahoo.com  
To: jamian@gmail.com  
Date: July 19, 2007  
Subject: RE: AHAHAHAHAHAHAH
> 
> Bitch.
> 
> "weekend" starts Saturday at 5, if I live that long. Boss is taking the kid to his mothers, thank god. Come over. We can watch movies on the completely ridiculous television. I think Sci-Fi is showing something with "mega" in the title. It'll be horrible. You know you'll love it.

* * *

When Saturday comes it's with a flurry of activity as Frank helps Gerard pack Chloe's overnight bag and make sure she doesn't manage to "forget" her church shoes. He waves to them as they go and Gerard pauses.

"Listen, I know you're off the clock and all, but could you try and not burn the place down over night. The neighbors frown on that."

Frank smirks and crosses his heart, swears on his grandmother's grave that the building will still be standing when they return, then settles in to wait for Jamia.

"So let me get this straight," Jamia says between bites of popcorn. "You're making at least twice what you would be if you'd actually gotten the job you wanted, you get to live here," she waves expansively. "You don't have to cut your hair like a normal human being or cover your tattoos…and you're complaining?

On screen, some actor that Frank has seen die in at least ten movies dies again, this time in the pinchers of a giant scorpion. Frank's pretty sure it was a snake that got him last time. Jamia's feet are tucked up under his thigh, and when he waits to long before answering her, she wiggles her toes, poking at the ticklish spot she always knows just how to find. He jolts a little and glares at her. Really, though, when he hears it all spelled out like that, it sounds ridiculous.

"Frank?"

"I'm a nanny" Frank says, frowning. He hates the way the word sounds. This isn't what he wanted to be doing with his life. Teaching was one thing, but… "and a maid. And a cook."

"It's a job, Frankie." Jamia tosses a handful of popcorn at him. "It's not forever and it's some pretty fucking nice gilding on your cage. I mean, sure it's not as glamorous as living out of a van, touring up and down the Jersey coast, living on generic soda and poptarts. I can understand how this just pales in comparison to showering once a week and sleeping wedged between two guys who stink just as bad as you. But, honey, you gave that up two years ago. You knew the real world would come knocking sometime. "

"It's not about that," Frank shakes his head, and it really isn't. He just doesn't know what it is about. "I don't know…"

He's completely lost the plot of the movie, not that he's entirely sure it had one to begin with.

"Whatever." Jamia leans back against the arm of the couch. "Lord, save us all from Frank Iero's quarter life crisis. Watch the movie. There's a swarm of locusts coming up, I think. Can I stay here tonight?"

"Sure, yeah." Frank picks the popcorn kernels off his shirt and drops them into the ashtray on the coffee table, checks around his feet for any that might have fallen. He just vacuumed yesterday.

* * *

One thing about the size of a television, Frank thinks, is that it's completely irrelevant when there's absolutely nothing worth watching on. He's flipping stations waiting for Jamia to finish up in the bathroom. It's been an hour and a half and he's just starting to consider an emergency search and rescue operation when the locks on the front apartment door start to click open. Frank stands up and turns, and Gerard's there… but not Chloe.

"You said you'd be home this afternoon." Frank says to him, checks his watch, the clock on the wall, both of which declare it to only be eleven-thirty. "And you lost your kid. Am I out of a job?"

"Change of plans. Brian called. He's got me scheduled for a last minute meeting this afternoon. Some portrait commission… thing. It's for a sports team or something. I don't even know. My mother wasn't ready to give Chloe back yet," Gerard says and it's at that exact moment that the bathroom door swings open.

"That bathroom, Frank, that shower. I don't ever want to hear to complaining about this job ever again." Jamia's scrubbing a towel through her hair, wearing Frank's old flannel robe and Frank wants to sink through the floor at the look that Gerard flashes at both of them.

"Oh!" Jamia smiles and reaches her hand toward him. "Hi. You must be Gerard."

"Yeah. You're a step or two ahead of me, I guess. You are?" Frank doesn't like the edge to Gerard's voice, and okay, strange girl in Gerard's house on Frank's first weekend, after swearing he wouldn't bring people home with him. Probably not the best way to keep a job.

"Jamia," she says, still holding her hand out. "Frank and I have known each other for just about forever and he was nice enough to let me sleep on the couch last night instead of making me trek all the way back to my place after we did dinner and movies last night. I'm sorry, that's not a problem is it?"

There's a pause and Gerard finally takes Jamia's hand. "No, no problem. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Jamia says, giving his hand a firm squeeze before letting go. Gerard nods and moves past Jamia and Frank to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. Frank says a silent prayer of thanks, since it looks like he's not going to be asked to pack his bags and go. Then it takes it back when Jamia hisses in his ear. "You forgot to mention that your boss is fucking gorgeous."

"What? He's not… I don't… how would you know?"

"Frank," Jamia smiles and pats his shoulder. "I'm a lesbian, I'm not blind. Just… Be careful, sweetie. I know you."

"Fuck off. Not actually a complete idiot."

"Oh, honey." Jamia gives him a look and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. "Of course you're not. I'm going to get dressed and get out of your hair. Call me if you need to."

"I won't."

**III. **

His mother bought him the journal as a graduation gift. 

In the grand scheme of graduation gifts, it was kind of lame, but considering the amount she'd shelled out for van repairs and equipment for his bands and his medical bills resulting from his own blatant stupidity over the preceding few years (and tuition, always remember the tuition), he'd figured complaining would be really tacky. Besides, it was a really nice journal. Was… now it's where he keeps track of his duties and Gerard and Chloe's likes, dislikes and quirks, things to remember.

It's filled with page after page of nearly illegible scrawl, entire pages crossed out with heavy black marker, post-its in Gerard's careful lettering, telling Frank which pairs of pants should be sent out for dry cleaning, what type of light bulbs should be purchased for Chloe's room, the bathroom, the studios… lists of cleaning supplies he needs to buy and Chloe's favorite foods to always have on hand (on separate pages, not that Frank's worried about accidentally feeding the kid Drano, but always better safe than sorry).

Frank's taken more notes in the last month than he did in all the years he was in college.

> **August 18, 2007**
> 
>   * Get G. to stop leaving art supplies in kitchen sink--- that's what he has paint sink for. Maybe then Chloe will eat off plates/bowls like normal human being instead of from lunchboxes.
>   * C. likes hair braided for trips to park, but loose or ponytail for trips to museums and movies – do not question, just do.
>   * Strawberry whipped cream pancakes + Chloe + Subway = Awesomely technocolor vomit. DO NOT REPEAT!!!
>   * Strawberry whipped cream pancakes + GERARD + Subway = Same NO MORE STRAWBERRY WHIPPED CREAM PANCAKES FOR ANYONE!!!
>   * Talk to G. RE: Folding his own goddamn underwear… I WIN!!!
>   * New clothes for C. before school starts. Floodwater pants = eternally uncool. No reason to ASK for mocking.
>   * 2.5 months till birthday… night off or stuck dragging kid around for candy? Find out now  
DAMNIT!!!!
>   * Call Ray and Krista… warn them. Children = lifeforce sucking demons… cute ones, but still… so tired.
>   * Convince C. to stop calling me her nanny. Is having effect… watched and enjoyed Lifetime original movie last night. Worrisome. “Manny” also no good.
>   * Acceptable nicknames for kid so far: Chlo, ChloJo, CJ, Princess (use sparingly… might start believing it), Cap'n, peanut…
>   * Unacceptable (i.e., get me a kick in the shins from C/evil look from G.): Li'l demon, monster, spawn, frizzface (made her cry, nice one Iero)
>   * <s>F ♥'s</s> Get a grip!!
>   * Talk to Patrick about pretending to be leprechaun for C. Also see if Labor Day BBQ is on

Gerard shoves the stack of papers across the counter at Frank and says, "I need you to fill these out."

"Hmmm," Frank's busy watching Chloe to make sure she doesn't forget that Play-Doh and upholstery is a bad combination.

"Emergency contact forms for school. You're fifth contact, just in case they can't reach Me, Mikey, Ma or Brian." Gerard taps at the pile of papers with a pencil.

"Sure, what?" Frank looks down at the papers and blinks. "You've got to be shitting me."

"Two fifty!" Chloe says gleefully from her perch on the coffee table. Frank grumbles but yanks three bills out of his pocket and tosses them in the five gallon water bottle. It's almost full.

"What," Gerard frowns, drawing back the stack of papers. "You've got a problem with where I'm sending my kid to school?"

Frank looks up and if he didn't know better, he'd believe Gerard was actually interested in his opinion. "Oh, no. No. It's one of the best. I've got no problem with them. They… uh, they have a little problem with me though. I applied there. To teach. Didn't want me."

"Oh." Gerard blinks. "Their loss. Can't say I'm sorry they missed out."

"Thanks." Frank pulls the papers away from Gerard and starts reading through. "Fifth you said."

"Yeah."

* * *

The knocking is soft, quiet enough that he knows it's not Gerard, not that Gerard has made a habit of knocking on Frank's door at eleven at night. Not that Frank thinks about Gerard knocking on his door.

"Yeah?" Frank calls and the door pushes open just a crack

"Frank," Chloe's peeking through, and he knows she should be asleep by now, knows because he put her to bed three hours ago.

"What is it, Chlo?" Frank asks. She takes that as permission, pushing the door the rest of the way open and climbing up into his bed.

"Do I have to go to school?"

"Yeah, school's important." Frank tugs at a lock of Chloe's hair and tucks it behind her ear. "Are you scared?"

"No," Chloe shakes her head and the same lock of hair coming free and falling into her face again. She wraps her arms around Frank's neck. "I just don' wanna. Can I stay home with you? I like you."

"I like you too, Chlo." Frank rests his hand across her back and tries not to think too hard about the fact that it doesn't take any effort to make that sound convincing.

"Good." Chloe squeezes him tighter. "I can stay home?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"You wanna be smart, don't you?" Frank says.

"But I am smart!"

"Sure, you're very smart for somebody who hasn't been to kindergarten," Frank agrees. "But what about next year when all the other kids have been to school and know how to add and subtract and you're still just counting?"

Chloe makes a tiny little frustrated noise, the same one Frank's heard so many times when Gerard sits sketching at the kitchen table or right after he hangs up the phone with one of his more stubborn corporate clients. He bites back the laugh that threatens; there is so much of her father in her. Everything he knows about Gerard he's learned by figuring out what he has in common with his daughter.

"You can teach me," Chloe says. "Daddy says you wanted to be a teacher, he said…." Chloe pauses. "He said that it's a… a.. tradegy that you're not. So you can be mine."

"I can't be your teacher, Chlo," Frank says. "You've gotta go to school with other kids. And besides, I'm already your Frank. I can't do both."

"Oh. That's dumb." Chloe's mouth pulls down into a frown and she tilts her head to look at Frank. "But I'm glad you're my Frank."

"Me too, kiddo."

Chloe presses a damp kiss against his cheek and climbs down off his bed. "G'night, Frank." The words are broken by a yawn and Frank knows he's going to have a hell of a time getting her out of bed in the morning.

"Goodnight, Chloe."

> From: fai1031@yahoo.com  
To: Gerard@artway.com; mway@wbr.com; jerseysbestgramma@yahoo.com  
Date: October 8, 2007  
Subject: Calendar Item: Stage Debut of Chloe Way
> 
> Dear honored friends, family and theater lovers;
> 
> You are cordially invited to a night of musical theater in honor of the autumn harvest garden. We are especially pleased to announce that the role of the sunflower will be played by Miss Chloe Jolie way in her first non-livingroom performance.
> 
> Date: Saturday, Novemer 10, 2007  
Time: 6:00  
Location: School auditorium.
> 
> No need to RSVP, as if you don't show, you will be RIP.
> 
> Sincerely,  
Frank Iero – Agent to the stars.
> 
> P.S. Seriously guys, they got cast today. She's been over the fucking moon since I picked her up from school. PLEASE make sure you put in on your calendars. GERARD! TELL BRIAN…I'm trusting you to take care of this.

* * *

The thing about Chloe, Frank had figured out pretty quickly, was that she couldn't be told what to do, couldn't be bribed or bought, but surprisingly enough she could be reasoned with. Tell her to pick up her toys and she'd get ice cream and the toys would just sit out. But remind her that someone might get hurt if they trip over her jumprope and it would find its way to her toybox. It's not the most difficult thing in the world to figure out that she just wants to at least feel like she was making up her own mind. Like she has some control.

As far as Frank can tell, it has to be something from her mother because it sure as shit isn't something she got from Gerard. He seems more than okay with other people - his mother, Brian (who Frank's starting to realize is some kind of deity for keeping Gerard on anything resembling a schedule), and now, apparently Frank – making decisions for him. Put a plate of food in front of him and he'll eat it, tell him to be somewhere at a certain time and, as long as he remembers, he'll show up.

His daughter is nowhere near as easily convinced.

"Chloe, time to get up. Up, up up." Frank calls, pushing open the door to her room. That first morning of Chloe demanding breakfast before sunrise was, much to Frank's eternal relief, an aberration never to be repeated. There are some Mondays, though, when he just wishes it weren't quite this hard.

"Mmph," Chloe groans into her pillow and squeezes her eyes closed against the overhead light that Frank flips on. "Don' wanna."

"Okay. Well, I guess it's up to you. You can get up for school or you can stay in bed all day and turn into a lump, but I don't think lumps are allowed to be sunflowers in the school play."

"Lump," Chloe mutters, tugging her blanket up over her head.

This, Frank thinks, is a bad sign.

"ChloJo, what's wrong," The answer comes back muffled and mumbled and completely incomprehensible. "What?"

"I said," Chloe lifts her head from the pillow. "I got nothing for show'n' tell!"

"What do you mean you've got nothing for show and tell?" Frank's trying as hard as he can not to laugh, but Chloe's shelves are full to overflowing with books, toys, little trinkets from Lisette, pages of doodles that Gerard has done of Princess Chloe in her mermaid kingdom. "You've got tons of stuff."

"Nuh-uh," Chloe shakes her head. "I got nothing special."

Frank resists the urge to throw his hands up in the air and, instead, turns calmly and leaves the room. Gerard is standing bleary eyed at the kitchen counter, carefully measuring out coffee.

"I'll take care of the coffee," Frank says, wresting the scoop from Gerard's hand. "You go help your daughter pick out something to take to show and tell."

"Oh," Gerard blinks at him. "Okay."

Fixing breakfast isn't Frank's favorite part of the day, but it's relaxing today. He likes the spatter-hiss of batter against the hot skillet, and he's finally perfected his flips and his timing so nothing burns. He's just taking the last few silver dollar pancakes off the skillet when Gerard and Chloe emerge.

"Well," Gerard says, pushing Chloe gently between her shoulder blades. "Go on, honey, ask him."

"Frank?" Chloe says, and Frank gives her his full attention. "Will. Um, will you come to school with me for show and tell?"

"You want… what… I," Frank's holding the plate of pancakes a few inches off the table.

"Please, Frank," Chloe says and Frank can't say no to her big eyes.

"Sure, of course, I will," Frank says. He sets the plate down and slides a few of the pancakes onto a smaller plate and adds a little syrup. "Why don't you come on up here and have breakfast. I need to talk to your father for a minute."

Once Chloe gets settled and is happily munching away on her breakfast Frank grabs Gerard by the wrist and drags him toward his room.

"I'm not show and tell material, Gerard," Frank shakes his head. "A doll, a drawing, those ridiculous clogs her mother sent her. That's what you were supposed to tell her to take."

"I tried. She wants to take something special, something nobody else would have at home."

"So, what," Frank crosses his arms. "You thought trotting me out like a trained dog?"

"It's not like that," Gerard says, curling his hand around the crook of Frank's elbow. "I asked her what she could think of that was special enough she'd want to show off. She said you."

"Oh."

> **From the Desk of Miss Greta**
> 
> Dear Mr. Iero;
> 
> Thank you again for joining our class as Chloe's "Show and Tell" this week. It was wonderful to finally meet you and have a chance to talk after all the good things Chloe has had to say about you this year. I would like to extend an open invitation for you to visit our class whenever you like. The children greatly enjoyed both story time and your musical performance.
> 
> Also, I would just like to apologize again for the unfortunate snack time incident. I assure you that while Monday is traditional our Show and Tell day, it is absolutely not naked day, no matter what Hemingway claimed. Thank you for your quick thinking in helping to handle the situation.
> 
> I hope to see you again soon. Perhaps as an assistant for our Halloween parade?
> 
> Sincerely,  
Miss Greta

**IV.**

"Whimper."

"Frankie?" His mother's voice is concerned, a little tinny over the phone line.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Frank says. His head drops back against the couch cushion. It's not comfortable, but he can't manage to hold himself upright any longer today.

"For what, honey?"

"I don't know," Frank says. "Everything. God, Mom. I don't know what I did, but whatever it is, I'm sorry. I take it back. I promise I'll never do it again. Just undo the curse. I've learned my lesson."

"Rough day at work?" She's laughing at him, substantially more than he deserves, Frank thinks.

"It's not funny, Mom." Frank knows he's whining. He would be ashamed... if it weren't for the fact that he totally deserves to whine to his mother today. After an hour spent cleaning grape jelly from three different pairs of Chloe's shoes, all he wanted to do was make a nice Alfredo sauce for dinner. But he sent Gerard to the store and waited for three hours only to have him come back with five gallons of blue paint. And no butter.

"It sort of is, sweetheart."

"You're a mean, horrible woman. Please make it better." Everything hurts, and he doesn't even know why. He's just so tired.

"Have you put that sweet little girl to bed?" Linda asks and Frank growls.

"No. No, I've put a wretched hellspawn to bed. I have no idea what happened to the sweet little girl, but she was not here today. Can you make her come back?"

"Honey," Linda sighs. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad. And even if it was, everything will look better after a good night's sleep. I'm sure Chloe will be back to adorable in the morning. But you're off the clock now, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then. Listen to your mother. Take a bath. With bubbles."

"Bubble bath." This is not the help Frank was looking for.

"Don't use that tone with me, Frank Iero. Which one of us survived raising you? Bubble bath, tea, music."

Frank feels a little stupid. A little stupid, but a hell of a lot more relaxed already and he's only just sunk down into the water beneath the churning whitecaps of soap. There's candle light flickering, vanilla scented ones, lit and lined up on the counter. He's got no idea why Gerard had them. A remnant from his marriage - a piece of Lisette he couldn't quite throw away - or just something to light when the power goes out. Frank supposes it doesn't really matter tonight, not when the smell reminds him of his mother's kitchen and the pulsing of the bathtub jets against his back is like his entire body is melting… like it's unnecessary.

It's been so long since he's managed more than a ten minute shower, stumbling blearily under the water so he's awake enough to cook breakfast. This is an experience. The only thing that could make it better, Frank thinks, the thing a bath like this is made for, is someone else's skin against his.

He can barely remember the last time he went out, maybe the third week, maybe the fourth. Somewhere dark and loud with the press of sweaty bodies in the crowd, but he didn't go home with anyone, couldn't bring anyone back to Gerard's. Soon enough, the appeal of pressing or being pressed against a wall for a few minutes, intense as they were, lost out to the possibility of a solid eight hours of sleep after chasing Chloe.

Tonight he wishes he had the energy, he can feel it itching under his skin, the urge to be out of control, to be irresponsible. To be something other than what he's become. If he only could move.

"Shit, shit, I'm sorry. Sorry," Gerard's voice is loud, echoing off every hard surface in the room and Frank should be startled. "Thought… your door was closed. I thought you were asleep."

"Hmm," Frank hums, rolling his head and blinking his eyes open. Gerard is smudged with ink and shadow, the bare, pale expanse of his chest and stomach painted with the glow of candle light. "Oh, um. No, I'm not."

"Right. I can see that," Gerard is staring. Even in the dim light, Frank can make that out, can feel the fix of eyes on him. "I'm. I'm going to go. Wait. For you to be done."

"Okay," Frank says, cupping his hands in the water and lifting, letting the heat flow down over the top of his head.

"Okay." Gerard swallows.

"Bye," Frank says, and god, he's so tired, limp and limbless and nothing but puddled heat. He knows there's something about this that should feel wrong, slipping until his shoulders are submerged as Gerard stumbles back out of the room, the door clicking shut. The only thing that feels wrong is that he's alone.

* * *

"Listen. About last night. I just wanted to say-" Gerard says around a bite of eggs.

"Dude, don't even worry about it. It's not a big deal," Frank shrugs, tucking a sandwich and juice box into Chloe's red lunchbox. "I should have locked the door."

"Yeah, probably," Gerard frowns and pokes at his breakfast. "Still…"

"Hey, Chloe!" Frank shouts. "Animal cookies or chocolate chip?"

"Right," Gerard says. "So we're just going to forget about it."

"Forget about what?"

**V.**

Second Saturday of the month and it’s a day off technically, but Frank doesn’t think to question it when he gets up and starts making oatmeal and slicing fruit, enough for three. Gerard stumbles out of his room within seconds of the coffee finishing. Frank still wonders how he manages that so perfectly.

“Morning.” Gerard blinks, yawns and reaches around Frank to steal a wedge of apple off the cutting board. “Any plans for the day?”

Frank hands him a moderately deformed coffee mug from the drying rack and frowns as Gerard moves away to pour his first cup of the day. “Yeah, actually-“

“Frank, I can’t find my green shoes! I need my green shoes. Can’t be a sunflower without them,” Chloe calls from her bedroom.

“They’re already in the bathroom with your tights and your leotard,” Frank says, not yelling but loud enough that he knows she can hear him. He’s still working the concept of indoor voices pretty hard. She’s learning. There’s a thud from the bedroom and the familiar quick slap-slap of bare feet. “Leave them where they are CJ.”

No answer comes back but Frank can hear the slight squeak of springs that means Chloe’s climbed back up on her bed.

“That’s tonight?” Gerard pauses with a spoonful of sugar hovering over his steaming mug of coffee and Frank feels something like terror settle in his chest.

“Yeah. Saturday the tenth,” Frank says slowly, carefully. “It’s been on all your calendars for a month. Or would be if you'd actually done what I asked you to. Tell me you didn't forget.”

“Fuck. The tenth.” Gerard sets the mug down, harder than required, and dull crack of impact between ceramic and countertop makes Frank flinch. “Fuck, Frank, I can’t. I’ve got a dinner meeting with a gallery.”

“Cancel it,” Frank shrugs, feigning a casualness he doesn’t feel at all.

“It’s a major showing, Frank. I can’t.” Gerard shakes his head, and he has the decency at least to look completely ashamed of himself, but apparently completely ashamed isn’t enough. “You’ll explain it to her, right?”

“Oh, oh, hell no,” Frank shakes his head and pushes back from the counter. “You don’t pay me enough for that. There’s not enough money in the entire world for me to be the one to break her heart over this. This one’s all on you, Dad.”

“She’ll understand,” Gerard insists, though Frank’s pretty sure he’s saying it more to convince himself than Frank. “She knows my work is-“

“More important than her?” Frank arches an eyebrow and he knows he’s pushing well past the limits of what he should be saying. Knows that Gerard would be well within reason to fire him for saying it. He’s got no standing, except for the part where he spends more of his time with the kid than without and certainly sees her more than Gerard does.

“That’s not what I was going to say.” Gerard looks away, cheeks pinking and Frank knows he hit the mark a little closer than he’d like.

“It doesn’t matter what you’re going to say,” Frank says, “because that’s what she’s going to hear. That she isn’t as important to you as your paint and canvas and clay.”

“She’s my daughter,” Gerard says, as though it’s all the answer that’s needed.

“Yeah.” Frank nods, watching Gerard’s jaw clench. “Yeah, she is. So you better think of a damn good explanation for why you’re not going to be there for her tonight. Fast.”

Gerard nods, a tight and jerky movement, and clears his throat. “Chlo? Chloe, can you come here please?”

“In a minute!” Chloe calls from her bedroom. “I’m busy!”

“Chloe?” Gerard repeats and Frank has the sudden urge to make it easy on him, to do the dirty work and take the tantrum he knows is coming.

“I said inna minute!” Chloe says again.

“ChloJo,” Frank says, and he knows she’ll recognize the tone, the one that means time’s up. She does, padding out from her room with a pair of glitter framed sunglasses perched on her nose.

“I’m a movie star,” she says, grinning up at Frank.

“I’ll have to get your autograph later, then.” Frank picks her up and sets her in one of the kitchen stools and gives Gerard a look.

“Chloe,” Gerard begins and Frank walks away. This isn’t his really business. He’s not family, he’s not the parent. He’s just the guy who’s going to be wiping Chloe’s snotty, tear stained face if Gerard walks out the door for his meeting, the one left to convince her that she’ll still be the best, prettiest sunflower in the world even without her dad in the audience.

He’s not hiding, if he were hiding, he’d close his bedroom door all the way and put his headphones on. It’s Saturday, it’s his day off. It would be allowed. But he’s not hiding. He is, however, eavesdropping, sitting on the floor by the door with it still open just enough to let voices carry through if not all the words. Gerard’s calm, reasonable tone, one that Frank knows isn’t going to carry any kind of persuasive weight with a devastated little girl.

“No!” Chloe’s voice is shrill and Frank can already hear the edge of tears.

“I’m sorry, Chloe,” Gerard says. Frank sighs and shakes his head. "But it'll be okay. It's fine. Frank will take the camera and when I get home, we can watch on the big tv. It'll be like you really are a movie star!"

“I hate you,” Chloe yells. “I hate you, I hate you, I HATE you!”

Frank bites his lip and forces himself not to move.

“Chloe, I love you, sweetie,” Gerard says, there’s something wrong with his voice. It takes Frank a second to figure it out. It’s the sound of a grown man trying not to cry. He wonders if this is the first time Gerard has heard his daughter say those words.

“No, you don’t. You don’t love me at all. I hate you and I wish you weren’t my daddy.” Chloe’s bawling now, screeching words interrupted by gasping, choking sobs. “I hate you. I wish Frank was my dad. You’re mean and Frank’s nice. He loves me. He loves me more than you do.”

“Being nice to you is Frank’s job. I pay him a lot of money to put up with you. He doesn’t love you.” Gerard’s voice is hard and quiet and it’s possibly the most hateful, hurtful thing Frank’s ever heard him say, and he’s saying it to Chloe. The words make their mark, ripping straight on through Chloe and hitting Frank in the gut. He feels sick, cold and nauseous. So glad he’s already sitting since he’s pretty sure his feet would have gone out from under him.

“Fuck,” Frank mutters, dropping his forehead against his knee. This was not supposed to happen. “Goddamn it.”

A door slams - Chloe’s, Frank is almost sure – and a few seconds later something shatters in the kitchen. He forces himself up off the floor and back out into the main room. Gerard’s kneeling on the kitchen floor picking up shards of green ceramic - his coffee mug – from a pool of still hot coffee.

“You absolute asshole.” Frank stands over him, staring down. Everything in him is screaming for him to take a swing, leave Gerard bruised or bloodied there on the floor, that he’d deserve it for what he said. But Gerard’s hands are shaking as he tries to pick up the remnants of his mug, and there’s already a drop of blood welling up from the pad of his thumb. Frank takes a breath and unclenches his fists. “What the hell was that?”

Gerard shakes his head, not pulling his eyes any higher than the laces on Frank’s shoes. “I don’t know. I just… it just came out. She started saying that stuff. And. She meant it, Frank. She’s never said anything like that to me before. Not ever.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a five year old girl, and she was hurt and disappointed by her father. What’s your excuse?” Frank says, dragging the garbage can over and moving to sit across from Gerard. “Fuck, Gerard. You pay me to put up with her?”

“I know,” Gerard says and presses his lips together in a frown. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pulled your job into it like that. That wasn’t right. I was. Jealous.”

“Jealous?”

Gerard nods. “You’ve been here four months and she’s just… I think you know her better than I do sometimes. And last week, during the thunderstorm. I heard you talking to her. She went to you first.”

“I’m still a novelty for her, like a new toy or something. Show and tell, remember. That was your idea. I’m not her dad and, no matter what she said, she wouldn’t want me to be,” Frank says, tossing a chunk of once was mug into the garbage can. “She’s such a good kid. She loves you so much. My God, you should hear the way she talks about you; you’re made of solid gold in that girl’s mind. And she just wants you to… she just…” Frank trails off in frustration.

“I know.” Gerard swallows and brushes his hands against his thighs. “I fucked up. I just. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“First? You call Brian and tell him that you need to reschedule tonight’s meeting,” Frank says. Gerard opens his mouth and Frank holds his hand up. “No. I know I’m just the hired help, but I’m putting my foot down on this one. You pay me to do the crappy grunt work. That's fine. But man, you’ve gotta put in the effort to be there for the big stuff. Otherwise… you might as well be in Paris.”

Frank waits for Gerard to argue again, but it doesn’t come. At least not in the form he was expecting.

“You’re not just the hired help.”

“Whatever,” Frank waves it off. “Not the point. You go call Brian. I’m going to go sit outside Chloe’s door and talk to her until she surrenders and lets me in.”

“It’s your day off.” Gerard pushes himself to his feet and holds a hand out for Frank. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah. I know.” Frank grabs Gerard’s hand and lets himself be pulled up. “And you’re right. I don’t have to.”

“Thank you,” Gerard’s eyes still aren’t quite meeting Frank’s but they’ve risen from his shoelaces to a point somewhere over his left shoulder.

“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you.” Frank pulls his hand from Gerard’s grip and walks away.

"Chloe?" Frank knocks on lightly on her bedroom door. "Chlo, can I come in?"

"No. Go'way." Chloe's voice is wet and trembly.

"I'm not going to do that, Chlo." Frank settles with is back against the bedroom door. "I'm going to stay right here. And when you're ready to talk to me, I'll be here when you open the door."

* * *

He's still sitting there an hour later, ass numb and voice hoarse from talking to fill the silence. Gerard slides down the wall next to him and presses a glass of water at him. They pass the glass back and forth between them and Frank pretends not to be conscious of pressing his mouth against the same place on the glass as Gerard.

"Brian yelled at me," Gerard says eventually. "Then rescheduled the dinner."

"Oh?" Frank leans his head back against the door, listening for any signs that Chloe might be close to giving in.

"I'm kind of an idiot sometimes." Gerard says. If he's expecting an argument from Frank, he's going to be waiting a long damn time.

"Oh?" It seems like the safest answer.

"I get so caught up," Gerard says. "I lose track… I forget. I get confused about what I'm supposed to really care about and who it's okay to let down. At least her mom knew she wasn't any good at being a mom."

"You're not a bad father," Frank says. Gerard's only answer is a slow exhalation. When Frank looks over, Gerard's resting his head against the door frame, his eyes closed. Frank can see the wear around his eyes. He's not sure he's ever let himself look, allowed himself to see the overwhelmed, scared man beneath the frazzled artist before.

"Sometimes I wonder." Gerard rubs a hand over his face. "What would have happened if Lisette hadn't left first? I'm not sure I would have stayed. How horrible is that? It's… you have no idea, Frank, what it's like. Thinking things like that. Wondering if you'd run away from your daughter. She deserves something better."

"So be better," Frank says. "Come on. We're going in."

He pulls Gerard to his feet and knocks on the door again, turning the handle. Chloe is curled up in her bed, back to the door, still and quiet except for the uneven rise and fall of her snuffling breaths.

Frank stands back and lets Gerard go ahead, watches him sit on the edge of the bed and rest his hand gently on her back. It's faster than a blink, Chloe twisting up and throwing her arms around Gerard's neck, burying her face against him and Frank thinks maybe he should just go.

"Shhh." Gerard murmurs.

"Please, Daddy. Please come see me be the sunflower. Please don't hate me. I'm sorry," Chloe whispers, voice thick from crying.

"Oh, Chloe. Sweetheart, no. I'm sorry. I could never, ever hate you," Gerard says fiercely. "And I'm gonna be sitting right there in the front row and you're going to be the best sunflower ever."

"Promise?"

"Tonight and every other night that matters to you. Cross my heart," Gerard says, and he does. His finger moves slowly, drawing the "x" over his chest. It should be silly, but somehow, Frank's not sure how, but somehow, he knows it's the most solemn vow Gerard will ever make.

It feels wrong that he's watching. He doesn't belong here. Not right now, as much as he wants to believe he could. Chloe looks at him over her father's shoulder and he can't move.

"Hi, Chloe," he says and she waves at him, timidly. "Can I come in?"

Chloe shrugs and hides her face against Gerard's shoulder. Gerard whispers something to her, soft enough that Frank can't hear it. Frank waits.

"Okay," Chloe says finally. Frank steps forward and she twists to look at him. "Am I your job?"

"Chloe," Gerard starts, but Frank holds up a hand to stop him.

"Lemme take this one, okay?" He sits on the edge of the bed and takes a deep breath, answering a question he's been asking himself for a few weeks. "Yes, you are my job."

"Oh," Chloe's face falls, lower lip trembling.

"Hey, gonna let me finish?" Frank asks, holding her chin in his hand, waiting for Chloe to nod before he goes on. "Yes, you are my job. Your dad hired me to cook for you and help you pick out your clothes. I'm supposed to get you to school, to help you brush your hair, and make sure you stay safe when he can't be with you. That part's my job. Loving you is just a bonus that means I have the best job in the world. I tricked your dad into paying me to hang out with you, and I'd do that for free."

Chloe flings herself at him then, all elbows and knees and grasping fingers. If Frank takes a jab to the kidney, he doesn't see any reason to mention it.

* * *

"You didn’t have to do that," Gerard tells Frank hours later when they claim their seats in the front row of the school auditorium, having left Donna and Mikey tucked a few rows further back. They are weighted down with flowers and stuffed animals to present to Chloe after her stage debut. Frank's gives him a questioning look. It's a look he's gotten really good at in the last few months. Gerard clarifies. "That stuff you told her earlier."

"Didn’t have to do that. I don’t have to be here. But I did, and I am." Frank tosses his jacket over the back of his chair and tries to find a position that doesn’t leave him with rose thorns stabbing him somewhere. "You don’t get it. I wasn’t bullshitting. I said it because I meant it. Not the "work for free" part. I’m not that stupid. But she’s a great kid, and I’d have to be an idiot not to love her at least a little bit."

"None of the others-"

"Yeah, but that’s why you hired me, right?" Frank says. "Because I wasn’t like any of the others?"

"Right. Yeah," Gerard's nod is jerky, almost startled. "But I wasn’t expecting-"

"Shut up, Gerard. Show's starting."

It’s just nerves on Chloe’s behalf that has Gerard clutching Frank’s hand from the second she shuffles out on stage with her classmates. Just nerves that has Frank squeezing back, leaning over and whispering "that’s your daughter," as Chloe steps forward to deliver her three lines, stumbling over her words, voice uncharacteristically soft and shy. "Doesn’t this beat any business meeting all to hell?"

"Yeah," Gerard says when Chloe moves back to her place in the 'garden' of her classmates. "Yeah."

Their fingers are still intertwined when Chloe takes her bow, grinning bright and waving to them.

> From: fai1031@yahoo.com  
To: jamian@gmail.com  
Date: November 11, 2007  
Subject: Fuck.
> 
> OK. Maybe I am actually a complete idiot. Please don't say you told me so.

> From: jamian@gmail.com  
To: fai1031@yahoo.com  
Date: November 11.2007  
Subject: Re: Fuck.
> 
> OK. I won't.
> 
> I'm sorry?
> 
> Try not to do anything too… Frank-like.

> From: fai1031@yahoo.com  
To: jamian@gmail.com  
Date: November 12, 2007  
Subject: Re: Fuck
> 
> Ha. A little late for that, I think.

**VI.**

"Raaaaaaaay Torooooooo!" Frank is… drunk. He hasn't been drunk in months and he has had really, really a lot to drink. So he is very, very drunk. But it’s okay, because it’s Friday night and he’s a young, single guy with a day off tomorrow. He’s allowed to be drunk, even if he’s not allowed to be drunk where he lives. That’s okay, because right now, he’s not where he lives. "Raaaay Toro. This is your fault."

Ray is not drunk. Well, Ray might be drunk, but Ray is not where Frank is, so there is no way for him to be sure. Frank is on Jamia's couch in Jamia's apartment… with Jamia. Ray is off in his apartment that used to be Frank's apartment too. He should be trying to make babies with his wife, his wife who made Frank move out of his apartment. So really it's all Krista's fault, but she is not there either. Because she's the wife Ray's trying to make babies with. And it would be awkward if they were trying to make babies on Jamia’s couch, because Jamia and Frank are sitting on it and it’s not really big enough for four people. So they are not there.

Jamia is there, because it's her couch in her apartment and it was her car that came and picked Frank up from the bar when he realized he couldn’t go back to Gerard’s.

"Ray should listen to my warnings," Frank says to her. "Kids are nothing but trouble. Remind me to tell Bob and Patrick too. I'll lend them Chloe… all of them, enough of her to go ‘round. They'll learn their lesson. Kids make you go crazy, do stupid things… like wanting to kiss their dads."

"Uh-huh," Jamia says. She doesn't sound like she's listening, but she is, or she was, the first ten times he told her what he did and how he walked out the door as soon as Gerard walked in. Jamia didn’t yell at him. She just listened and sighed and said ‘oh, honey.’ She always listens to Frank. Always. Except for all those times he told her she shouldn't be a lesbian. It's not that he's got anything against lesbians. Lesbians are awesome. Just not when they're the girl he wants to marry.

"Why do you have to be a lesbian?" Frank leans his head against her shoulder. She's got great shoulders. He loves her shoulders. He loves her… or he used to, they were engaged. He remembers that. "You were supposed to marry me. You promised."

"Because I don't like cock. Also, I was twelve at the time. It wasn't binding."

"Hmm. I like cock. I think I’d like Gerard’s. Shhh. Don’t tell. I like cock, but I like you too. Why don’t you like me? Promise is a promise." Frank shakes his head, he's all sloshy inside. A mess. “Promised you I wouldn’t do anything stupid and Frank-like… but I’m Frank… so everything I do is Frank-like. That was a stupid promise for me to make.”

"You're drunk, Frank."

"Yes, yes, yes I am." Frank says. Honesty's the best policy, always. The truth will set you free, except for when it'll get you fired. "I'm fucked, Jam. Fucked."

"I know sweetie, you can tell me about it in the morning."

"Won't be drunk in the morning," Frank knows that much, he won't be drunk, he'll be wishing he were though, drunk is so much better than the hangover he's going to have. "Won't say it then. 'm in love. Love them. Both."

"Go to sleep, Frank." Jamia's shoulder is gone, but the couch is still there.

"Kay."

* * *

"So," Jamia says, pushing the aspirin and water toward Frank where he's curled up on the bathroom floor, cheek against the cool tile. It's been five whole minutes since he's puked, but he's nowhere near willing to declare victory yet.

"Yeaugh," he says.

"Are you looking for a new job, Frank?"

"Urgh."

"Frank."

"Christ, Jamia," Frank presses the heel of his hand against his temple. "Not now."

"You can't do this to yourself. You need a new job." Jamia cards her fingers through Frank's hair, and it would be wonderful if every inch of his skin didn't hurt just thinking about being touched.

"I have a good job, you said so." Frank doesn't want to talk about this now. "You made me promise to never complain about it again."

"That was different. That wasn't… Oh, Frank. Do you have a plan?"

"Beyond not throwing up again?" Frank groans, reaching for the aspirin, hoping he can keep it and the water down. "I don't know. Stay. Keep doing what I'm doing. They need me… and. Shit. I have to stay. I can deal."

"For how long, Frank."

"Kids need nannies until what, twelve, fourteen, now? I'll figure it out by then."

"Oh, honey," Jamia says, and Frank decides he really, really hates those two words.

* * *

“Sorry about yesterday.” Frank’s head is still throbbing, crashed out on the couch with a blanket over him and his toes perilously close to edging under Gerard’s leg..

“What? No. You don’t have to apologize.” Gerard’s squinting at a cookbook spread across his lap - one of Frank’s mom’s - flipping pages from recipe to glossary and back. Even the idea of food is enough to make Frank’s stomach roil. “I can mix paints and glaze and make papier-mache and I can fire pottery without destroying it. I should be able to figure out how to make a pot roast, wouldn’t you think?”

“You’d think.” Frank’s been waiting for the reprimand since he walked back in the door this afternoon, but so far all Gerard has done is bring him water and aspirin and tell Chloe to try to be quiet because Frank’s ‘sick.’ “Seriously, though. I won’t do it again.”

“Oh. Well…” Gerard looks at him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Frank repeats. He wasn’t expecting it to be that easy, but the pounding in his head is grateful.

“How’s Jamia?” Gerard’s closed the cookbook and picked up the remote control, flipping stations, but leaving the television muted.

“Fine. She’s. She’s good.” Frank closes his eyes and props his head against the arm of the couch. His bed is close, but Gerard’s hand is settled on his ankle like an anchor, and Frank doesn’t have the energy to throw off the weight.

“Good.” Gerard sighs, he sounds almost as tired as Frank feels. “You know, if you wanted to spend more time with her, I’m sure we could do something. Maybe change your schedule? An extra day off or something.”

“Nah. It’s cool. Don't want her girlfriend to think I'm horning in.”

"Oh, girlfriend. Right."

**VII.**

"Clowns?" Frank’s picking bits of confetti and glitter out of the carpet. "You seriously thought a clown was a good idea."

"Chloe likes clowns," Gerard’s voice is muffled, head under the couch checking for ‘misplaced’ pieces of cake or hotdog.

"Your child is a freak. And now I’m going to have nightmares for a week at least. Jesus, Gerard. Clowns."

"Bite me," Gerard emerges from under the couch, hair flaked with dust and Frank has to look away from his grin. "You took that balloon sword he made, so don’t even start with me."

"Hey, balloon swords are important. How else was I supposed to protect myself from the rampaging hordes?"

"I think you did pretty well with putting them all into food comas. I’ve never seen kids drop like that before, did you use ketamine?" Gerard sneezes, and again, and again. "Don’t I pay you to clean? Damn, it’s dusty under there."

"I’ve been slacking," Frank says, rocking back on his heels and dumping a handful of confetti into an empty plastic cup. "Just sitting around watching daytime TV and eating bonbons."

"Thought as much," Gerard nods, sending a few dust motes into the air. "She's six, Frank. Six."

"Yeah. That tends to happen on your birthday after you've spent a whole year being five. God, you’re a mess," Frank laughs, reaching out and scuffing his hand through Gerard’s dusty hair. "I guess I really have been falling down on the job, huh?"

"No." Gerard says, smile dropping from his voice. "No. You’ve… you’ve been amazing. You are amazing."

"That’s what I keep telling everyone," Frank says, looking away and pushing himself up to his feet. "Come on, we should get this place cleaned up."

"Frank," Gerard’s fingers are warm on Frank’s wrist, not holding just touching. It’s enough to make Frank stop. "Thank you. For everything."

"Just doing my job."

"Frank." His fingers slide over the heel of Frank’s hand, across the crease of his palm and Frank closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing.

"You’re welcome." He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and walks away, proud of himself for keeping the words steady.

**VIII.**

"Frank?" It’s well past bedtime for her, almost past for him, but Frank's not entirely surprised when Chloe wanders out of her room dragging her stuffed dragon by the tail. She's always restless when Gerard's out at gallery events.

"Yeah, Chlo?"

"Movies are just for pretend, right?" Chloe crawls up onto the couch and tucks herself close against Frank’s side. It’s something he’s gotten used to, the insubstantial weight of her leaning against him. Her fingers tracing the outline of the letters on his skin. He’s learned to hold still and wait for her.

"That’s right."

"Not just the scary zombie ones?" And oh, hadn't that been a week, after Chloe spent the night at Mikey’s and came home terrified of being devoured by the undead. That Mikey had been so completely, abjectly guilty about it was probably the only reason there hadn’t been any bloodshed.

"Right, it’s all pretend. Like when you were pretending to be a sunflower."

"Okay, good." Chloe says. "Cuz I don’t want you to go away like Mary Poppins. You have to be my Frank forever. Okay?"

He should have known. Should have been prepared, he thinks. He isn't, and the request makes his breath catch.

"I’ll be your Frank for as long as you and your dad need me," Frank says carefully. "But even if I stop being your Frank, it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you."

"I know," Chloe says, fingers clutching at his shirt, her voice is heavy with sleep and Frank’s sure she’ll drop off soon enough. "But that’s what they said in the movies and they always go away and never come back. If they’re just for pretend, and you’re real, then you can stay with me and Daddy forever. Be our Frank."

It would be so easy to just say yes, to make the promise to her, but he’s not the one who has control over it being kept and there’s a cold spark of fear somewhere below his ribs that reminds him of that.

"I’m your Frank for as long as you need me," Frank says again.

"Forever," Chloe says through a yawn.

He waits until he’s carried her back to her room and settled her down - dragon tucked beneath her arm and sleep slackening her face - before he echoes the word. It's more hope than promise.

> From: torosaurus@hotmail.com  
To: fai1031@yahoo.com  
Date: January 4, 2008  
Subject: Making an offer you can't refuse.
> 
> Stupidly cheesy reference. I know. But are you still interested?
> 
> -R

> From: fai1031@yahoo.com  
To: torosaurus@hotmail.com  
Date: January 4, 2008  
Subject: Re: Making an offer you can't refuse.
> 
> HOLY SHIT! Are you serious????
> 
> Congratulations, man! You bet your ass I'm interested.
> 
> Call me if you've got time to go out… do it now because you'll never have time again. 

"It’s late." Gerard is sitting in the dark. Still and straight on the couch, back to the door. It takes Frank a few minutes to make out his outline from the dim light from the street outside. Frank was quiet coming in, well aware of the time. He’s not drunk. He’s just… late, or early maybe, it's somewhere in the A.M. end of the scale, and he’s going to regret that in the daylight, but there are some celebrations you can’t cut short.

"Ray, my old roommate, his wife’s pregnant. I’m gonna be the godfather." He can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. There was a look in Ray’s eyes tonight, one he’s learned to recognize from Gerard, one he wants for himself. Hope and pride, belief and stupidly blinding love.

"Congratulations." Gerard shoves himself up off the couch and walks toward his bedroom. "Next time you’re going to be out all night, call. Chloe was so worried it took me three hours to get her to sleep. I didn’t know what to tell her."

"What? You’ve got to be kidding me," Frank laughs, and he thinks maybe it’s a little too loud. Even in the dark, he can see Gerard’s shoulders raise, his fists clench, but he can’t seem to care. "I was celebrating with a friend. I was off the clock and I went out. I don’t have to report to you, remember. That was part of the deal. You’re only the boss of me until seven thirty. I’m allowed to actually live after that."

"Right," Gerard says, still facing away and Frank can barely hear him. "Of course. So sorry, I forgot. You’re only here for the money."

There are angry words hanging on the tip of his tongue, stuck just back behind his clenched teeth and it is the hardest thing Frank’s ever done to swallow them back down.

"You know what," he says instead. "You were right. It is late and it was a good night for me. I’m not going to fuck that up right now. This isn’t a conversation I can have at two in the morning."

The sound Gerard makes isn’t a laugh, Frank’s not sure what to call it, but he doesn’t like it.

"I think. You’re not. This isn’t." Gerard’s words aren’t going anywhere that Frank can follow them. Starting and stopping, a new path each time he opens his mouth, but Frank can see the danger signs.

"Can we please just let it go until morning? Please, Gerard. You can yell at me all you want in the morning, but I’m not working for you right now. I just want to sleep." It's not really all he wants, but it's all he knows how to ask for right now.

"I'm sorry. I don't think you should work for me anymore."

"Wow." Frank says, and he remembers saying that before, standing in just this spot. "I. Wow. Okay."

"I'm sorry." Gerard says again, stumble-stepping toward him. "It's not… this isn't what things were supposed to be. I never meant to-"

"No," This is what he was waiting for. He knew it would happen; he just didn't think it would be quite yet. "That's. That's your decision to make."

"Frank, please, it's not…"

"I should pack." Frank pushes past Gerard, shoulders open his door. His fingers fumble against the wall, even after all this time, having trouble finding the light. He blinks against the bright glare.

"You don't have to do this," Gerard says from the doorway. Frank can't look at him, digging under his bed for the duffle bag he knows should be there.

"I kind of do. You just fired me." His fingers catch on the strap of his bag. "So, I don't actually live here anymore, do I?"

"No, Frank," Gerard steps forward, his hand clamping on Frank's shoulder. "You do. This is your home. I'm not kicking you out on the street."

"How kind of you," Frank stands and shakes off Gerard's touch. "But I don't need your charity."

It's strange, there's so much more in the room than he can possibly fit in the bag, and it's only now, only trying to put his whole life into such a small piece of canvas that he realizes what's happened. He built himself into this room, into this life and now, no matter what, he's going to leave pieces behind.

"If you want to leave," Gerard says and Frank can't stop the sharp bark of laughter.

"What I want… doesn't matter." Frank says.

"And Chloe?" Gerard says. This time, Frank can't stop himself. It's been so long since he's done it, but God, the quick turn of his body and he doesn't even have to try to remember to put the full force of his shoulder behind the punch. By the time he realizes what he's done, the sharp spark of pain is already fading and Gerard's tumbling back with a hand clapped over the place where a bruise will bloom.

"Bastard," he spits, shaking out his wrist. "You fucking bastard." He doesn't know what's in his bag, no idea what bits of himself he's managed to gather up. It doesn't matter. He leaves his keys and lets the door slam behind him.

* * *

"Whu, huh? Somebody had better be dead," Bob's voice is muffled and scratchy.

"Bob, I'm outside. Let me up." It's fucking freezing and Frank's hand is starting to throb, clenched tight around his phone.

"Frank? What the fuck? Hang on. Jesus, it's three in the morning." The door releases and Frank shoves his way through and heads for the stairs. It's five flights up, but Frank needs to burn off the rage.

"Just unlock your door," Frank says and snaps his phone shut.

He's just starting to feel the ache of exertion in his calves when he hits the landing and it's easy enough to focus on that and ignore the urge to commit violence. The door to Bob and Patrick's apartment opens and Bob's standing there in slippers and boxers. He's sleep mussed and frowning.

"Explain," Bob says when Frank drops his bag and falls back into the worn recliner chair.

"Got fired, punched my boss… after I got fired." Frank laughs weakly.

"I’m going to assume you punched the dad, not the kid," Bob says, staring down at Frank.

"Funny. Really. You're a laugh riot, Bryar." Frank yanks the lever on the chair, popping up the footrest and tries to find a comfortable position. "I can stay here, yeah?"

"Two days," Bob says. "I can't promise more than that."

"Just tonight's fine," Frank sighs, tugging the blanket off the back of the chair. "I've got somewhere else to go… just not tonight."

**IX.**

The room's all done up in pastels and ruffles, all the remnants of Frank's childhood in boxes in the basement, in closets, long gone to garage sales. Still, when his mother saw him on the front porch, she didn't hesitate to pull him inside and get him settled. Three days in and she still hasn't asked any questions. She leaves the dirty work to other people.

"Your Mom said you should get your ass out of bed and come down for food," Jamia says from the doorway. Frank looks up from the laptop and shakes his head.

"I'm busy. Gotta find a job."

"Yeah," Jamia settles on the bed next to him, wrinkling her nose. "But, you gotta wash the stink off, too."

"Yeah, whatever," Frank shoves her away but she leans right back in, hooking her chin over his shoulder and peering at the screen.

"That doesn't look like a job listing to me."

> From: gerard@artway.com  
To: fai1031@yahoo.com  
Date: January 12, 2008  
Subject: Please read
> 
> Please stop ignoring my calls and emails. We need to talk. I screwed things up. Chloe will barely even speak to me. I don't blame her. I'm an asshole. 

"He's not getting the hint," Frank says, clicking delete, sending the message to join the dozen or so others from Gerard in the last four days. It's a low blow, bringing the kid into it again

"You're going to have to talk to him at some point," Jamia says. "You need to get your stuff back, at least."

"Yeah, about that," Frank smiles up at her. "Do you think you could maybe…"

"I swear, Frankie, when you do a break-up, you do it up right." Jamia shakes her head.

"I got fired, not dumped," Frank says. Though, really, he's surprised by how similar the two feel. Jamia kisses his cheek and then his forehead.

"I'll see what I can do about picking up your stuff."

* * *

"I said I'd be down in a little while," Frank snaps at the knock on the door. He's kneeling on his bedroom floor. Still damp from the shower, the water is making his boxers stick to his thighs a little while he digs through the stack of fresh laundry in the corner of the room. It smells all wrong. "Give me a break."

"Your mom went out." It's the last voice Frank expects to hear in his mother's house. His shoulders bunch and he feels the phantom ache in his hand.

"Get out," Frank doesn't turn around when he hears the door hinges squeak open.

"Not until you talk to me." Gerard says.

"There's nothing to say, Gerard."

"No, see, I think there is," Gerard says, moving closer, and Frank can see him from the corner of his eye. "Like, maybe you can tell me why I was accosted by an angry lesbian in my own living room today?"

"Fucking Jamia," Frank mutters.

"She says she won't leave until I talk to you. And I knew you'd just hang up if I tried to call again." Gerard sits down on the floor next to Frank and pulls the pair of socks he's been studying from his hands. "So. Fuck, Frank. You have to come back. Please? We…Chloe misses you."

"She's young," Frank says. "She'll get over it."

"I miss you," Gerard says, and Frank flinches when Gerard's hand curves over his bare shoulder. "I miss you, Frank."

"Dishes piling up, are they? Turn your whites pink?" Frank wants him gone, wants him out of this house, out of his life. He doesn’t want this, Gerard's hand warm against his skin, sliding across his back, his forehead pressed against Frank's shoulder.

"I don't miss having a housekeeper," Gerard says quietly, his breath moving in warm streams over Frank's skin. "I miss you. Come home."

"Gerard-"

"No," Gerard breathes. "No. Every time I try to say something, you do this. You always do this. You always pretend that this isn't… I didn't want you to leave. I just. I don't want to be your boss, Frank. I can't."

"Fuck, Gerard, what do you want from me?" Frank closes his eyes, fists clenched against his thighs.

"You know," Gerard says, his hands retreat and when Frank opens his eyes, Gerard is shifting, moving until he is knee to knee with Frank, hands perched tentatively on his shoulders. "You can't not know."

"I-" Frank starts. "No."

"No," Gerard's eyes are wide, startled. Corners of his mouth twitching down, but he's still touching, hands still molding the shape of Frank's shoulders and neck, fingers smoothing over him like he's clay, something to be shaped and perfected. "Right. Well."

"No, I don't know what you want." Frank clarifies. "I haven't got the faintest fucking clue, Gerard. I can't. It's not my home."

"It can be." Gerard's thumbs rub against the hollow of Frank's throat. "I want it to be. Chloe loves you. She needs you and I need you."

"You'll find someone else," Frank says,

"No," Gerard shakes his head, leaning forward, closer, and Frank knows he should move away. "Not that way. Not to cook our dinners or do our laundry. We just… need you. In our lives."

"Gerard," Frank says and Gerard's mouth is against his, tentative like something from a child's game. Just the careful, still press of dry lip against lip, and then…

"Come home," Gerard's words are a soft buzz against Frank's mouth. He doesn't know what the right answer is, but he knows what answer he's going to give.

* * *

"FRANK!" Chloe's squeal is warning enough that Frank is able to drop down to one knee and brace himself for the impact of her flinging herself full speed into his arms. "You came back!"

"I did," Frank agrees, lifting her up and twirling her around, and he can't stop the grin at her delighted giggles and the tight squeeze of her arms around his neck. There are other parents, teachers, even some of the other kids, turning and staring. Fuck it, Frank thinks. He doesn't care what kind of spectacle he makes. "I came home."

"Don't you ever go away again," Chloe says, face drawn solemn and she clamps her hands on Franks cheeks, staring at him. "Ever. I was scared!"

"I'm sorry, ChloJo, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Well you did," Chloe says, drawing her eyebrows together. "Daddy said you left but I knew you didn't 'cuz you didn't say goodbye. And you'd never really leave without saying goodbye, would you?"

"No," Frank shakes his head.

"Promise you won't go away again." Chloe says and frowns when Frank hesitates. "Promise."

Gerard steps close, resting a hand on Chloe's back and looking at Frank. He licks his lips and nods and Frank draws in a breath.

"I promise, Chloe," he says, eyes locked on Gerard's. "I promise. Cross my heart."

* * *

"She's asleep," Frank says, pushing Gerard back against the couch, settlings a knee on either side of his thighs and Gerard's hand slips easily up the back of his shirt.

"You sure?" Gerard says.

"Out completely," Frank says, leaning down to catch Gerard in a kiss. Gerard's mouth opens under his, tongue slipping against Frank's lips, and Frank shivers at the feel of Gerard's nails against his spine.

It's been a week. A week since Frank came back, a week of awkward readjustment while he figures out who he is if he's not the help, starting to work out the fit of the pieces of this new puzzle they've become. A week of kisses in the morning before Chloe is awake and careful touches, Gerard's hand against his neck while they watch movies with Chloe tucked between them. A week of stopping, of saying 'did you hear something,' and breaking apart, nervous and retreating to separate beds.

"I don't know how any family has more than one kid," Frank had said the third day, when they separated only seconds before Chloe wandered out in search of a drink of water and extra hugs. But she's asleep now.

"So, wanna make out?" Gerard says between kisses, letting his hand drift down, over the small of Frank's back and sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Nah," Frank says, fingers slipping buttons free, pushing back the sides of Gerard's shirt.

"No?" Gerard mumbles against the edge of Frank's jaw, pressing a wet kiss to the hollow under his ear, scraping his teeth against the soft skin. Frank tilts his head back, groaning low and long. "So if I say we should go to my bedroom?"

"Why, Mr. Way," Frank says, carding his fingers through Gerard's hair, "are you trying to take advantage of me?"

"Yes," Gerard doesn't hesitate, humming the word against Frank's skin and pressing his hips up. "Fuck, yes. Frank."

"Okay," Frank says. "Yes. Yes."

"Yes?" Gerard's fingers press against the soft flesh of Frank's waist.

"Bedroom," Frank says, sliding off the couch and standing in front of Gerard. "Yours. We should go there. Now."

Gerard nods dumbly, licking his lips, and Frank pulls him upright in the tight space between couch and coffee table. He lets Gerard walk him backwards, steering him carefully around furniture and down the hall, and it's easy to twist, let himself be backed against the wall and kissed hard and deep, enjoy the weight of Gerard's body, to rock against the firm press of Gerard's thigh between his.

"Shh, shhh," Gerard says when Frank groans, twisting his head away from the kiss to swear.

"Right," Frank pants. Right. Can't wake the kid. Not tonight.

"Lock. My door has a lock," Gerard sighs against Frank's mouth and Frank pushes them back into motion.

It's not the first time he's been in Gerard's room, far from it, but it's the first time he's been here like this, stumbling through the door with his hands clenched at the collar of Gerard's shirt, and Gerard only pulling away long enough to get the door closed and locked behind them.

Frank skims his shirt over his head, shoves his sweats down, kicking them off and Gerard makes a sound, choked and wanting before he's stepping forward and pushing Frank onto the bed. Frank goes easily, spreading himself out over clean sheets. They're ones he's folded a hundred times, helped Gerard spread over the bed, tucking precise corners, never allowing himself to really think about being the one feeling them against his skin.

He's there now, palming over his cock and watching Gerard peel his shirt off, pop the button on his jeans.

"Fuck," Gerard says standing over him. His eyes are dark and Frank's fascinated by the flush spreading across his skin. "You look-"

"You too," Frank says and holds out a hand. "C'mere. You… I've been really, really fucking patient. You have no idea."

Gerard laughs at that, shaking his head. "Got some idea, I think."

"Nope," Frank says. "You don't. No idea the things I've thought about doing to- with you."

"Try me." Gerard pushes his pants down and crawls up the bed, and drapes himself over Frank. "God, I want to fuck you."

"Yeah, we can, yes," Frank says, pulling Gerard down and bucking against him, the slide of their cocks enough to make him arch and he wants more, wants that.

"Thought about it so much," Gerard says.

"Tell me," Frank slides a hand down Gerard's side, skimming over his ribs, his waist.

"Your room," Gerard leans down and noses against Frank's throat, presses an open mouthed kiss against his shoulder. "I though about you in there, just lying there."

"All alone," Frank sighs and Gerard's mouth skims across his chest, point of his tongue tracing along clavicle. "Thinking about you."

"Yeah?" Gerard looks up, startled.

"Yeah. About this," he says. "About… "

"This," Gerard says, slipping further down Frank's body, wrapping a firm hand around his cock.

"Yes," Frank's voice is little more than a harsh whisper. Gerard's hand is strong and stroking firm and perfect and Frank's hips are rocking into his fist.. "Fuck, Gerard, please."

"What?" Gerard says, twisting his hand. Frank groans sound loud inside his own head. He knows he should be quiet, knows there's a very good reason to bite back the sounds that Gerard seems intent in pulling from him.

"I need," and Gerard, he knows. Knows exactly what Frank needs, his mouth wet and hot, arm pressed hard across his hips, holding him down. Frank's desperate, and pleading, no idea how many of the things he's thinking are making their way to words as Gerard's mouth works over him. His fingers slip through Gerard's hair, palm curving around the back of his head and it's good, amazing, and not enough. "Fuck me."

Gerard hums around him and Frank bucks against the weight of his arm, says it again.

"Fuck me, Gerard."

Gerard pulls away, pressing kisses against Frank's thighs, his hip bones, and up, reaching toward the bedside table and fumbling in the drawer and it takes longer than it should, but they're kissing all the while and Frank can't complain about that, about the slick slide of Gerard's tongue against his and the rock of their hips together and the sweat blooming between their bodies.

The first press of fingers is shocking, slick and warm and the stretch is as good as Frank remembers, better. His leg hitched high and Gerard mumbling nonsense sounds against his lips until Frank is speaking the same language, the sounds tumbling against each other, into each other's mouths. And then the fingers are gone and it's even more. More and better and all Frank can feel is Gerard's cock and the slow spreading heat of perfect thrusts and Gerard's fingers tight around his wrists, pressing them down against the mattress.

Frank stretches and flexes his fingers, rolls his wrists, testing the strength of Gerard's grip and Gerard holds firm, biting at his lips and swallowing down the tight needy sounds.

"Come on, Frank," Gerard says, and Frank wants to taste the saltsweat of his skin, twists his head so he can, licking a strip up Gerard's throat. "Come on."

"Fuck," Frank groans, the word stretching and stuttering when Gerard's hips twist and snap in hard. Once, twice, and one more time and it explodes behind Frank's eyes, tears through him and rips the air from his lungs. When he is conscious of his own body again, aware of the pounding of his heart in his chest and the shuddering of his breath, he feels Gerard's weight pressing down on him, the place where his mouth rests against Frank's shoulder. It takes him longer to decipher the word being breathed against his skin.

"I will," Frank says. "I swear. I will. Cross my heart. "

"Stay."


End file.
